Contradictions
by Brokensword
Summary: Kill Bill: O-renGogo, Gogo remembers why she joined O-ren


Wow. There was a Kill Bill section all this time? How did I not know this?

For Gogo, it was an easy answer. She knew it as soon O-ren slid into the bar, a tiger disguised as a kitten. Steps so demure, but with a touch of electricity crackling on the edges. Gogo saw it all, and so she knew immediately she would agree.  
  
Gogo knew nothing of the woman herself, being much more interested in the gritty, exhilarating, violence of an assassin than in the dry, calculating, brutality of politician. However, the imagery the woman projected, the smell of death that radiated from her body like a particularly overpowering perfume, told Gogo all she wanted to know.  
  
The tiger woman had slid in the seat next to her and offered to buy her a drink. Gogo, half a bottle in front of her, didn't answer verbally, merely pursed her lips in a little girl pout, one hand seductively running across O-ren's knee, the other stroking the blade of her poised blade.  
  
"I have an offer to make you," O-ren had said, a delicate eyebrow raising, maybe because the probing hand, or maybe at the glint of metal that the lights caught. The corners of her polite mouth had been turned up, the playful kitten displaying fangs like a lion.  
  
Gogo placed a carefully manicured nail against her bubble gum pink lips, smiled displaying two rows of perfect, pearl teeth. The offer was accepted.  
  
Gogo has never for a moment regretted that acceptance. Of course there are very few things in life she regrets since she has yet to come across more than a handful of problems that couldn't be solved by a decisive thrust of something sharp, and shiny. Still she has always very much liked her life as O-ren's personal body guard, as it supplies her with just enough easy brutal violence to keep life interesting.  
  
She lives for those brief moments of ecstasy right before the kill. The most wonderful moments in the world come to her in the heat of the fight. She dreams sometimes of the feeling of the link chain hugging her arm, the weight of the metal ball lessening as it hits her target dead on, and her arms moving fast and nimble, as if she was a cheerleader swinging a baton. She smiles in the night as she remembers how metal whizzes over her head like a herd of angry locusts, and drops of scarlet stream down her face, staining the immaculate white of her uniform, and she knows just one flick of her wrist and it will be all over.  
  
She doesn't know where she got the idea for her weapon. It just seemed to appear to her one day, amidst the glittering, razor sharp blades that carelessly adorn the room reflecting the sunlight and creating pastel rainbows against the white walls. Somehow her weapon just seemed right lying in the middle of the Hello Kitty memorabilia, uncapped whisky bottles, and teen magazines that characterize her living space.  
  
O-ren, at least, seems to be able to enjoy the irony of it. After a particularly gruesome display of hostile group take over gone wrong, the stately woman stands in her bathroom. Somehow she seems right too, standing prim and proper in the middle of liquid eyeliner, assorted hair products, and glitter nail polish that Gogo arranged around a sink stained pink from the countless times she's rinsed her uniform in it.

The Yakuza leader smiles at the inconsistencies, maternally, almost, with a dark rim of desire around the edges.  
  
Most of Gogo's experience with desire has led her to disregard the feeling. In her experience it is a stupid senseless emotion characterized by drunken leering and fumbling, careless hands, inspiring weakness and loss of control. Which isn't to say she doesn't enjoy it, doesn't enjoy snapping like a Venus fly trap as the men are entranced by her surface appearance of school girl charms. However, it's just a passing amusement, the climax being the pervert's spray blood, and pained scream.  
  
But O-ren is different. She always has been. The smell of blood intoxicates her whenever they are together, and as the half Japanese woman stands in her bathroom, a queenly presence to her school girl facade, Gogo doesn't hesitate; she attacks.  
  
She begins on O-ren's neck, nibbling on the deceptively fragile skin, like a puppy on a chew toy, enough to cause any sane person to fear for their life. O-ren, however, leans into the savage kisses, her slender fingers calmly ripping the white, pressed blouse down the middle, causing the buttons to cascade the floor.  
  
Gogo takes a moment to enjoy the of tearing cotton, which somehow sounds to her like lost innocence, and conjures images of pure snow tread on by dark foot prints, of a newborn lamb playing too near sinister shadows. With these images in mind, Gogo turns her attention to the O-ren's mouth. Her teeth play on O-ren's lips, pressing down just hard enough that a few drops of salty blood stain the detergent white of Gogo's own teeth. As her tongue flicks across O-ren's tiger-like fangs, Gogo imagines that her once pearl teeth are now as pink as her nails.  
  
The thought amuses her, and Gogo pulls back from O-ren with a coy giggle. One hand covers her virgin pink lips, and her body recoils in a perverse attempt at youthful modesty. Her eyes glint with maniacal delight.  
  
O-ren then reminds her of all the reasons why she said yes. With a strength that doesn't seem possible from such a small frame, she sends Gogo crashing onto the counter, hair products, and make-up raining to the floor. O-ren, grins, ever proper and polite, the barely concealed blood lust shining behind her eyes as she pin's the assassin's wrists against the mirror, her nails sharp enough cause crimson spots to appear against the smooth brown skin.  
  
Gogo arches her back in delight as she feels the first few drops slide down her arm, purrs when O-ren lifts one slender wrist to her mouth, her tongue teasingly lapping the blood. Gogo wraps the arm around O-rens neck, as she slides to the edge of the counter, leaning forward slowly, teasingly, like a blushing teenager ready for her first kiss.  
  
What follows next a series of sensations that rival the memory of combat for a fond place in Gogo's heart.  
  
Lips sticky with gloss meet lips wet with blood, as fluid mingle and mix in a bruising kiss. Cool, refined hands thrust under the pleated skirt, sliding along the traces blood and sweat still that still shimmer on the skin, remnants of the carnage earlier that day. White soled tennis shoes wrap around the most powerful woman in Japan, as probing hands play with the ties on the traditional kimono.

Without warning the younger woman's thigh muscles tense, furiously pulling O-ren closer, as their hips slam against each other, lips soon to follow, and limbs grip tighter, struggling for balance.  
  
Just then, as Gogo feels ready to devour her, to give them both memories that can surpass even the thrill of carnage, the suddenly infuriating melody of O-ren cell phone interrupts the montage.  
  
"Time to go," O-ren says simply, as she closes the phone, and straightens her clothing. Her tone speaks of business and formalities, even as her eyes whisper the promise of later. Minutes later Gogo is equipped with a new shirt, her hair flawless, her hands steady and ready and the two leave, the only evidence of what transpired the mess on the bathroom floor.  
  
However they both know that O-ren will be back, and the same question will burn unasked in her eyes. And, as always, Gogo knows what her answer will be. She knew it from the first moment she saw her. It was such an easy answer.  
  
After all Gogo has always like the contradictions.


End file.
